2026 Misty Copeland

Thank you Wake Forest for having me.

And congratulations, Class of 2026.

Really.

This is a huge moment.

And I know during graduation season people move quickly into “what’s next” without fully stopping to take in what they’ve already done.

But getting here took something.

Discipline.
Pressure.
Persistence.
A lot of uncertainty.

A lot of moments where you probably questioned yourself and kept going anyway.

That matters.

And I think that ability to keep going when things feel uncertain is one of the most important skills you can have in life.

Because uncertainty never fully goes away.

I’ve learned that over and over again.

When I was first asked to speak today, I kept thinking, what can a ballerina possibly say to a group of Wake Forest graduates?

To future doctors, teachers, writers, scientists, entrepreneurs, artists, researchers, people about to step into careers that shape the world in very tangible ways.

And then I realized something.

No matter what path you take, underneath all of it, we’re all dealing with the same human things.

Fear.
Belonging.
Identity.
Pressure.
Purpose.

That’s the real work of a life.

And those are the things I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out too.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a ballerina.

I didn’t even see ballet until I was thirteen years old.

For ballet, that’s considered really late.

At the time, I was living in a motel room with my five siblings. We moved a lot. Stability wasn’t really something I knew.

And ballet definitely wasn’t part of my world.

I didn’t grow up going to theaters. I didn’t know the terminology. I didn’t know the culture. I didn’t see people who looked like me in that space.

I remember walking into that first studio and immediately feeling behind.

Everybody else seemed fluent already.

They knew the positions.
The language.
The expectations.

I remember pretending I understood what was happening and mostly just copying whoever was in front of me.

I was trying so hard not to look lost.

And I did feel lost.

There were moments where I remember thinking, there’s absolutely no way I can catch up to these girls. They’ve been doing this forever.

And there were plenty of moments where quitting would have been easier.

But there was something about ballet that made me stay.

I can still remember the feeling of moving across the floor for the first time and feeling something unlock in me emotionally before I even had words for it.

And more importantly, there were people who believed in me before I fully believed in myself.

A teacher.
A mentor.
A parent.
A family member.
A friend.
Someone saying, keep going.

That changes a person.

I think a lot of us are here because somebody did that for us at some point.

And now you get to become that person for someone else.

That’s something I think about constantly now.

Especially because for a long time, I was so focused on proving myself.

Proving I deserved to be there.
Proving I belonged in ballet.
Proving someone like me could exist in that world.

And becoming the first Black woman promoted to principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre was obviously an incredible honor.

But it also came with a very specific kind of visibility.

Suddenly there were a lot of conversations happening around me and about me that had very little to do with dancing itself.

I became very aware of how much people’s ideas about tradition, beauty, and belonging could shape who they imagined in certain spaces.

And there were moments where that was painful.

But there were also moments where I realized visibility could create possibility for other people too.

I remember performing at Lincoln Center at the Metropolitan Opera House and looking out into the audience and seeing so many Black and Brown faces.

Families.
Young kids.
People who maybe had never seen themselves reflected in ballet before.

And I remember realizing this wasn’t just about me anymore.

It was about people feeling invited in.

Feeling ownership.
Feeling possibility.

That changed my understanding of success completely.

Because suddenly success wasn’t just achievement.

It became impact.

And that shift changed the way I viewed my career.

For a long time, dance was about survival for me.

It was about discipline.
Achievement.
Escape.
Opportunity.

But over time, it became something much bigger.

It became a way to communicate.

A way to connect.

A way to show emotion without words.

And eventually it became a way to help other people feel seen.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about dancers is that everything comes naturally.

People see the final performance and think elegance just appears effortlessly.

But ballet is repetition.

It’s doing something over and over and over again until your body understands it deeply enough that it begins to look free.

And honestly, life is a lot like that.

Confidence works that way too.

People assume confidence is something you either have or don’t have.

But most confidence is built through repetition.

Trying.
Failing.
Trying again.
Showing up again.

I think about that a lot when I work with young dancers now.

Sometimes I’ll see a child become frustrated because they can’t do something immediately.

And I understand that feeling.

Especially now, when we live in a culture where everyone sees the polished version of everybody else’s life all the time.

You see people succeeding constantly online.

Winning.
Building.
Achieving.
Announcing milestones.

But very rarely do you see the uncertainty behind any of it.

Very rarely do you see the years where someone was struggling quietly.

The years where they doubted themselves.

The years where they almost gave up.

And I think it’s important to remember that every person you admire has lived through those moments too.

I definitely did.

People assume that once opportunities start happening, insecurity disappears.

It doesn’t.

In some ways, visibility can make insecurity louder.

Because suddenly more people have opinions about who you are and what you represent.

And I had to learn over time how to stay connected to myself inside all of that noise.

That took years.

And honestly, I’m still learning.

I think one of the hardest things about growing older is realizing how easy it is to lose yourself if you’re constantly trying to become who other people want you to be.

You can spend so much energy adapting that eventually you stop asking yourself:

What do I actually want?
Who am I when nobody is watching?
What kind of life feels true to me?

And I think your twenties especially are full of those questions.

There’s so much pressure to have everything figured out immediately.

To pick the perfect career.
The perfect city.
The perfect path.

But life is not that linear.

At least mine certainly wasn’t.

Some of the most important moments in my life came from uncertainty.

Some came from failure.

Some came from things not going according to plan at all.

And looking back now, I’m grateful for that.

Because uncertainty forces growth.

It forces self-awareness.

It forces resilience.

And resilience is something I know all of you already have.

You came of age during an incredibly complicated time.

You’ve lived through political division, social upheaval, a global pandemic, economic uncertainty, constant digital noise.

And yet here you are.

Still hopeful.
Still ambitious.
Still moving forward.

That matters.

I think older generations sometimes underestimate how much pressure young people carry right now.

There’s pressure to succeed professionally.

Pressure to be exceptional.

Pressure to constantly improve yourselves.

Pressure to build a meaningful life while also somehow appearing calm and confident at all times.

That’s exhausting.

And I really want all of you to understand something.

Your value does not increase or decrease based on how productive you are.

Your humanity matters separate from your accomplishments.

I had to learn that the hard way.

As my career grew, so did the pressure I put on myself.

I felt like I couldn’t slow down.

I felt like I always had to prove something.

I was performing the role of Firebird during a period where I was pushing myself beyond what my body could sustain, and I ended up with six stress fractures in my tibia.

And I remember realizing my body was forcing me into a conversation I did not want to have.

About rest.
About worth.
About whether I believed I had value outside of performance and productivity.

That was hard for me.

Because dancers are taught to push through.
Ignore pain.
Keep going.

And I think a lot of high-achieving people live that way.

You become so identified with achievement that rest starts to feel uncomfortable.

But eventually your body, your mind, your spirit, something catches up with you.

And I had to learn that rest is not weakness.

Slowing down is not failure.

Sometimes slowing down is actually what allows you to sustain the life you’re building.

That changed me.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become much more interested in impact than image.

Much more interested in creating access and opportunity for other people.

Especially young people growing up in communities where opportunities in the arts aren’t always visible or accessible.

Because talent exists everywhere.

Potential exists everywhere.

Opportunity does not.

And I know firsthand how transformative access can be.

I know what it feels like for one opportunity, one teacher, one person believing in you to completely alter the trajectory of your life.

And I also know how many brilliant young people never receive that opportunity at all.

Not because they lack talent.

Not because they lack discipline.

But because access is uneven.

And I think all of us have a responsibility to think about who we’re bringing with us as we move through the world.

Who feels more possible because we were here.

That’s impact to me.

Not perfection.

Impact.

I also think one of the most important things you can do as you grow older is protect your curiosity.

Protect your ability to stay open.

Open to people.
Open to change.
Open to evolving.

I think sometimes people become so afraid of uncertainty that they stop growing entirely.

But growth requires vulnerability.

It requires humility.

It requires being willing to admit you don’t know everything yet.

None of us ever fully do.

I still feel like I’m learning constantly.

About myself.
About balance.
About purpose.
About how to be present.

And I think that’s healthy.

I hope ten years from now all of you have changed.

I hope you surprise yourselves.

I hope your understanding of success evolves.

Because if your definition of success never changes, you may end up chasing a version of happiness that no longer fits who you are becoming.

That’s something I’ve learned slowly over time.

When I was younger, success looked very external.

Recognition.
Titles.
Achievement.

And those things mattered.

But now success looks much more like alignment.

Peace.
Purpose.
Connection.
Being fully present in my own life.

And honestly, I think peace becomes underrated when you’re young.

But eventually you realize how valuable it is.

A life that feels grounded.
A life where you can recognize yourself inside it.
A life where you don’t constantly feel like you’re performing for other people.

That matters deeply.

I think another thing that surprised me as I got older is how important community becomes.

When you’re younger, it’s easy to think life is entirely about individual achievement.

What are you accomplishing?
What are you building?
How successful are you becoming?

But eventually you realize life feels very empty if there’s nobody to share it with.

The older I get, the more I value the people who have stood beside me consistently.

The people who knew me before certain accomplishments happened.

The people who tell me the truth.

The people who remind me who I am outside of work and achievement.

Hold onto those people.

Really.

Because there will be moments in your lives where things feel uncertain or overwhelming, and the people around you matter deeply in those moments.

And there’s one more thing I want to leave you with today.

Do not spend your entire life waiting to feel fearless before you begin.

I think so many people believe courage looks like certainty.

But most of the courageous decisions in my life were made while I was scared.

Walking into ballet for the first time.
Leaving home.
Stepping onto major stages.
Speaking publicly.
Allowing myself to be seen beyond dance.

None of those moments felt comfortable at first.

And I don’t think growth usually does feel comfortable.

Growth stretches you.

It asks you to move beyond the version of yourself that feels familiar.

But I think one of the most beautiful parts of adulthood is realizing you are allowed to keep becoming.

You are allowed to change your mind.

You are allowed to evolve.

You are allowed to outgrow old versions of yourself.

And you are allowed to build a life that reflects who you actually are, not just who other people expected you to be.

I hope you give yourselves permission to do that.

I hope you stay curious enough to keep learning.

Grounded enough to stay connected to people.

And brave enough to trust yourselves even when the path ahead feels unclear.

Because clarity doesn’t always arrive first.

Sometimes you leap first.

And understanding comes later.

That was true for me over and over again.

And in so many ways, I still feel like I’m learning while I leap.

I think that’s probably true for most people, even the ones who seem the most certain.

So be patient with yourselves.

Take your work seriously, but not yourselves too seriously.

Protect your peace.

Call your family.

Tell people you love them.

Laugh often.

Stay open.

Stay human.

And trust that your life does not need to look like anyone else’s in order to be meaningful.

Congratulations again, Wake Forest Class of 2026.

I really cannot wait to see what you do next.

Thank you.